Wonderfully, beautifully right
by BernardJenkins
Summary: Life is just like that, he thinks to himself as he watches her lift her mug with slightly shaking fingers, things just go wrong occasionally. But sometimes, if you're lucky, they go wonderfully, beautifully right.


He doesn't notice her immediately.

When the Inquisitor brings her through the gates of Skyhold for the first time it's with a group of other refugees from the Circle at Starkhaven and she slips past his gaze with barely a hint of her potential. She's another tick on his ever-increasing list of personnel with special skills, a name he sends to Dagna's slowly-growing group of researchers.

She merges so seamlessly into the background that her name barely registers.

"Kirstin McGarrie" she murmurs in a lilting Starkhaven accent.

He doesn't hear it properly until she's mentioned at a war council meeting three months later.

"We'll need more of those lyrium grenades for the walls." Cassandra says, bent over a map of their latest objective; a keep crawling with bandits and Venatori in the Western Approach.

"The ones we used last time? What did Kirstin call them again?" The Inquisitor scratches at his beard and frowns as he tries to remember.

"Confusion grenades." Leliana helpfully supplies grinning wolfishly, "Now _they_ were impressive."

Cullen can't help but feel like he's been left out of a joke and considering it involves offensive weaponry, he's a bit put out.

"What exactly, are confusion grenades?" He asks, his voice a bit more acidic than he's hoping.

Leliana makes a dismissive gesture with a hand and doesn't look up from the table, "Oh just something one of the Starkhaven mages came up with a few months ago."

"When they explode they do something to your sense of which way's up." Maxwell says. "They're quite brilliant actually."

He notices her more after this.

Mentions of a name in connection to more creative and hair-brained weaponry. Who was responsible for the bees? Kirstin McGarrie. Self-igniting pitch grenades? Kirstin McGarrie. Shields with in-built emergency barrier enchantment runes?

Kirstin McGarrie.

It's not until one sunny summers day that he puts a face to a name. Dissatisfied with the gloom of his office he's standing leaning against the battlements, quill in hand and a pile of papers secured under a rock on the walls. The sun is warm against his skin and he swears he can almost feel it through the slight chill of the fever he's been fighting for the past few days.

He's so absorbed in the latest reports that the metallic twang of unfamiliar magic nearly knocks him off his feet.

"Um…"

He jumps and whirls around, papers scattering in the breeze. His hand is automatically on his sword as he casts about for the source of the strange voice. If this is some new cruel withdrawal symptom, he thinks to himself, he's got absolutely no time for it; the chills and aches are bad enough.

"Commander? A little help?"

The voice is slightly familiar and coming from above his head. His sense of foreboding deepens as his head tilts slowly back.

"Maker have mercy." He breathes.

Hovering, no _floating_ , not two feet above him is a woman. She's upside down, a shock of curly, chestnut-coloured hair swimming in strange tendrils across her face. Her blue eyes are slightly wild with the beginnings of panic as she coasts a little in the breeze. In deep brown, bear-skin leathers she's not dressed like a mage. But years with the Templars has attuned his senses to the background hum of the fade. The way her legs and arms are windmilling wildly as she drifts in thin air is also a bit of a giveaway.

Drifting towards the battlements he realises.

His mouth snaps shut and he hurls himself towards her, catching the outstretched arm in a flash. He braces himself against the wall, trying not to think too hard about the drop to the rocks below and hauls her back to relative safety.

She grins, "thanks for that."

They stare at each other for a few moments wrist grasping wrist, she's still threatening to float away into the atmosphere. He manages to find his voice.

"What on earth is going on?" He asks, his voice shifting automatically into his traditional Commander-of-the-army growl.

If she's the least bit intimidated by his tone, she doesn't show it. "my anti-gravity grenades seem to work." She says, her grin widening. "Might need a little tweaking though." She concedes, eyes shifting involuntarily to the harrowing drop he's just saved her from.

"You think?"

/=====/

He starts to see her _everywhere_ after that.

One day she's sitting on the stone stairs to the main hall, soaking up the sunshine while staring intently at something glowing in her hands. The next day she walks through the gardens while he and Dorian are playing their weekly game of chess. He's speaking with Varric in the hall when he notices her talking with Dagna, purposefully striding towards the Undercroft, arms flailing emphatically.

Late one night he finds himself still awake and squinting at requisition documents. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair. If he's entirely honest, these late nights are getting later. His avoidance of sleep like it's some sort of plague is probably not the most helpful of coping mechanisms.

It doesn't take him too much longer to sneak off into the kitchens in search of some the sweet, cinnamon rolls he's keenly aware of every time they come out of the oven. He hardly ever lets himself eat one; something about the Commander of the Inquisition Army eating sticky buns is unsettling in his mind.

He's just settling in with the latest reports from Rylen ( _"Sir, were you aware that you can get sand stuck in your ears? I wasn't, but I am now.")_ when he hears footsteps. He's furiously debating with himself about hiding his clandestine pudding when she walks in.

She looks only just about as awake and functional as he is, which is saying something. Her clothing is creased and covered in smudges of what looks like soot. Her hair is only loosely held back with a leather strip that really doesn't seem to be doing its job properly and her skin is covered in a thin layer of black dust, darkened in patches with sweat.

She looks like she's just stepped out of a roaring fire storm.

"Evening." She says with a faux tip of the hat, mustering her dignity and sweeping into the kitchen.

The shock of it means he forgets his carefully-crafted persona entirely, "What on earth happened to you?" he asks incredulously, the corners of his mouth turning upwards unconsciously.

She looks at him innocently, "what this?" She says, gesturing to the smouldering edges of her shirt, "this is what we of the Undercroft refer to as a 'minor setback'."

"Maker's breath," he says, "should I ask what you were working on…?" he leaves space for her name despite being keenly aware he knows exactly who she is.

She reaches for a tray, "Kirstin," she supplies helpfully over her shoulder. She pronounces her name like it's _Keeeerstin_ and it's the best thing he's ever heard. _"_ Dagna and I were working on improvements for the pitch grenades. One of them sort of got away from us."

She's moving with a sort of practised grace, a strange and detached part of his brain notices, multitasking with tired limbs as she stocks the wooden slab with bread and cheese, throwing understatements about with delicious abandon.

"Actually Commander," she says with a thoughtful frown, "you may be able to help."

"Oh?" He says, tipping his head slightly.

"Mmm," she mumbles around a torn-off piece of sticky bun she's pinched for herself on top of the supplies she must be taking back to the Undercroft. "The library here is… well to be fair it's non-existent." She's finished loading the tray and is leaning against one of the benches. "If you could add a side trip to one of your next patrols to Val Royeaux…?"

"Give me details tomorrow and consider it done." He finds himself saying immediately.

She blinks, "really?"

He nods, business-like once more "Really. If it helps the Inquisition get an edge then there's no arguments from me."

It's only after she's thanked him, only after she's gone, that he realises he recognised her footsteps on the stone before she walked in.

He files _that_ away to ponder later. Much, much later.

/=====/

A month later he finds himself pausing at the top of the stairs from the Great Hall, frowning slightly at an unexpected hum of the crowd gathered around the training grounds. He folds his arms as he scans the scene before him. It's a sobering reflection upon his current state of mind, he thinks, that he's immediately concerned. The Cullen of past years would have been curious first he's certain. He sighs to himself.

Varric and Dorian are right; he _really_ needs to relax.

"What's going on?" Josephine asks, moving to stand at his shoulder.

He shrugs, his frown deepening as he spies Sera's crazy hair right in the middle of the group furiously taking what appears to be coins from Skyholders. Varic is scribbling something down on a piece of parchment with a wicked grin. It's a tally, he realises; they're taking bets.

"I have no idea," he tells the Ambassador with a resigned smile, "but if those two are doing what I think they are, we're about to see a show."

Josephine smiles back and they settle in to watch from their vantage point. The people have turned out in force, he notices. There's a small group perched precariously on the roof of the forge and there are others lining the battlements.

"Ah, I thought so." Josephine says as the Inquisitor appears from the side door to the garden.

In a comical display, Max hams up the cheers of the crowd, bowing with exaggerated flair. His daggers glint dangerously in the sunlight as he leaps lightly over the fence into the arena. He's milking it for all he's worth Cullen thinks, rolling his eyes at his friend. Distracted by the theatrics, crowd doesn't notice the Inquisitor's opponent enter the ring, but Cullen does.

She's dressed in fighting leathers again; a long bear-skin jacket over a thick vest and deep red, long-sleeved shirt. Her slender fingers are encased in thick, armoured gloves and iron bracers cover her arms. Her long hair is braided tightly into a bun and fixed in place at the nape of her neck and he can see the tell-tale mage's staff fastened to her back.

It's her boots that really confuse him though.

They're unlike anything he's ever seen. Most mages in his experience have favoured light, but sturdy slippers. When you're being harried by things larger and tougher than you, running away is your top priority. But these boots are _heavily_ armoured. They're plated with iron and, if he squints, they _glow_. With what he's not entirely sure.

"You ready?" She asks, languidly unhooking her staff and leaning on it almost lazily, "or are you going to show off some more?"

There are a few laughs in the crowd and Max grins at her. "Alright," he says, "let's see what you've got."

"Is this some sort of test do you think?" Josephine asks, curiosity, and a little bit of worry, lacing her voice. "An audition?"

Cullen has no idea, he thinks, half-listening as Varric outlines the rules of the match _(fight until loser yields – no face shots)._ They both jump as the spymaster creeps up on them.

"Don't underestimate the senior enchanter," she says, sashaying up to their vantage point with a small, infuriatingly knowing smile. "I have it on good authority that she is a formidable opponent." She turns to them with a smirk, "Plus Dagna informs me that Kirstin has more than one trick up her sleeve."

"That, I do not doubt." Josephine murmurs.

Down below, they square off. Cullen, for all that he's been put in his place numerous times by women on Templar training grounds, can't help but feel like the mage is outmatched. The Inquisitor, though wiry, is physically imposing by comparison.

Plus, Cullen has the burden of knowledge. His shoulder still smarts from the near-loss he suffered at the man's hands a few days ago. If he'd known Max fought so dirty, he would have ditched his shield well before the rogue had wrenched it out of his grasp with a painful twist.

"No one in the field fights fair." He'd told the Commander with an infuriatingly smug grin.

It was true, Cullen would readily admit it, but in the ring? That was completely different. There were _rules_. The Inquisition had declared themselves apart from the law but they weren't _savages_.

Two minutes into the fight before him and all worries he may have had evaporate in the wake of her undoubtedly _unusual_ tactics.

"What's wrong Inquisitor?" she calls from where she's perched lightly on the fence, leaning on her staff. "Having trouble?"

The Inquisitor laughs good-naturedly, as always, and picks himself up off the ground, again. Cullen is not a little bit impressed with the Senior Enchanter. Her magic is like nothing he's ever seen before. For the last few minutes, she's literally been making the Inquisitor dance like a marionette. "Rift Mage" is the term Solas mutters to himself as he joins them on the steps.

"She would be formidable in the field." Leliana notes thoughtfully.

"Hmm, in a fight like this one perhaps. I'm not so sure how it would work in practise." He frowns, "A lot of her abilities would affect allies as well." She casts a gravity-distorting spell that sets his teeth on edge, squishing the Inquisitor to the ground once again.

Max shouts in exasperation and launches himself in her direction with uncanny speed. Caught off guard, Kirstin can't get a spell together in time. Instead, she clicks her heels together and, in a flash of blue light, jumps.

The Inquisitor whirls around on the tip of one foot expecting to face her once again. He frowns. Kirstin is nowhere to be seen. There's a slightly panicked shout from above followed by the crowd's exclamations as they collectively realise something's gone wrong and there's a mage floating towards the main building.

"Oh Maker preserve us," Cassandra sighs in exasperation.

Cullen doesn't think, he merely lets years of Templar training take over. Amidst the startled exclamations, he finds himself taking Skyhold's stairs two at a time, some part of his brain tracking her out of the corner of his eye. He cries out in triumph as his hands close around one of her ankles and one of the banners at the door simultaneously.

"Commander," she calls back, laughing a little breathlessly, "we really need to stop meeting like this."

He's knocked to one side by a grinning Inquisitor "You have a strange way of conceding a fight McGarrie." He calls, latching on to one of her outstretched arms.

Dagna takes over from Cullen to help reel her in, babbling excitedly about some of the tweaks to the boots they should make to get them to work. He's surely but not unkindly shouldered out of the way. As he steps back, arms folded, he frowns to himself. This feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that makes him simultaneously disappointed and angry, is unfamiliar.

After her latest misadventure, he has a small group of his troops clean out the old ballroom that they all collectively decided to ignore until further notice. He decides that protecting their best researcher from her own mad inventions is becoming more of a priority.

/=====/

"You're jealous." Dorian tells him with a smug grin during their next game of chess in the gardens.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Cullen replies, making a grand show of studying the board and the pieces in front of them.

Cullen can't really pinpoint the exact moment he starts considering the Tevinter sitting in on the other side of the Chess board a friend. He's never exactly been good at making friends, people sort of adopt him instead. Bonding over a shared love of strategy and a healthy competitive streak probably helps. Regardless of how Dorian manages to smash all his preconceived stereotypes regarding Thedas' former overlords, he's found himself confiding in the man.

Dorian leans forward conspiratorially, "I have it on good authority, my friend, that our illustrious Inquisitor is interested in someone else."

"Oh?" Cullen moves a piece, his eyes still scanning the board, furiously attempting to maintain an air of innocence while hanging on every word.

The mage leans back in his chair and hooks an arm over the back of it, "Max made the mistake of joining the Chargers for a drink the other night."

Cullen winces in sympathy, "Ouch."

"Indeed." Dorian turns his attention back to studying the board as he continues, "Apparently he got a bit chatty and confessed his undying love for our lady Ambassador."

The commander blinks, "Josephine?"

"Uh huh," Dorian moves a piece forward.

"Well that _is_ interesting." Cullen grins suddenly, "But not surprising."

Max has proved himself time and again to be a political mastermind. It's something they've argued about many times before around the table. There's a time for diplomacy, Cullen thinks, and sometimes Max goes too far. Still, it does tend to work out. He thinks back to the last time the Inquisitor and the Ambassador went toe to toe arguing the best course of action for some noble family's minor squabbles. He thinks back to how delighted Max seemed to be that Josephine disagreed and finds himself entirely not surprised.

"So your accident-prone friend in the Undercroft is very much available."

Cullen fumbles with the piece he's just picked up and frowns. It's not that he's afraid to admit that he's _very_ interested in the lyrium engineer. He just has no idea what to do about it after that. The last woman he was even remotely interested in was recruited to the Grey Wardens and then died ending the Blight. Things… well things haven't gone exactly to plan after that and he's not felt himself to be in a place where he's even _wanted_ someone at all since.

Dorian takes his silence for hesitation and looks at him for a moment. "You know, I had you on my list when I met you at Haven." He grins at Cullen's sudden deer-in-the-headlights look and waves a reassuring hand. "Oh don't look at me like that," He says with a laugh, "you got crossed off pretty soon after I found out you were the straightest man in all of Thedas. That and I'd have to fight about a million other women to get to you." He moves a piece to the centre of the board. "Check."

"Damn." Cullen murmurs.

"You seem distracted." Dorian quips, leaning back in the chair again. "Can't imagine why." He shifts again and leans both forearms against his legs. "I think what I'm trying to say is that you're a bit of a catch. Whatever it is that's making you hesitate is lying to you."

Cullen legitimately has no idea what to do with that.

/=====/

It's not long after this that Leliana starts… _eyeing_ him.

At first he's not sure exactly what's brought it on until one day he catches her looking at him. She's leaning against the back wall of the dining hall watching him speculatively. He feels himself redden slightly.

"Commander?"

"Hm?" He lowers his hand from where it's been absently scratching the back of his neck.

Kirstin smiles over the pieces on the board, "it's your turn I believe."

It takes a few weeks for the spymaster to openly mock.

And it _really_ doesn't help matters that he's feeling increasingly left on the outskirts of the latest strategy meetings. The inquisitor is, of course, a natural at Orlesian politics; he and Josephine spend most of the time gushing diplomatic strategy at each other and congratulating themselves on their collective genius.

"It's a pity there were only a few invitations," Leliana says unexpectedly during a lull in the conversation, "You'll have to suffer the ball alone Commander."

He frowns, keenly aware that anything he says will fall neatly into some sort of trap she has devised beforehand. "I wasn't planning to enjoy it, Leliana." He says with a low growl.

"That's a shame." She says with a slow smile, "perhaps you'll need to pack some confusion grenades for a quick getaway."

Cullen's eyes narrow dangerously at the spy master.

"Actually, the Commander's air of mystery might work to our advantage," Josephine says with an all too cunning smile for his liking.

An hour of excruciating 'how do we use the dashing Commander's marital status to our advantage?' scheming later and they finally see fit to release him. Leliana catches him at the door as he's reviewing another report.

"I believe she and Dagna are about to test their latest improvements if you'd like to review the experiment." She smiles at him and he can't help but feel like he's an attraction at a carnival. "Strictly military business of course."

"Leli…" he starts to protest but she smiles even wider.

"Hush," she tells him with an all too knowing smile, patting him on the cheek "just look pretty."

Despite a solid amount of righteous indignation, he somehow finds himself walking into the Ballroom five minutes later.

/=====/

A week before they leave for what he's certain is his doom, he's sitting in the kitchen again. They're eating cinnamon rolls and drinking milk like children, warming their hands at the hearth. He's not sure when these midnight snacks became a regular thing but he does know that he looks forward to having difficulty sleeping sometimes.

"You talk as if you're marching to your death." Kirstin says, smiling at him fondly. "Surely it's not going to be _that_ bad?"

Cullen nearly chokes on a piece of sticky bun. "Not that bad?! I'm a military Commander, not some fawning…" he's spluttering indignantly now, "have you _seen_ some of the Chevaliers? Not one Orlesian noble _ever_ says what they mean! It's infuriating." He withers a little and glances at her sideways, "I'm not good at being…"

"Underhanded?" She supplies helpfully? "Deceitful? No that's not the word… Cunning?" She chews her lip in thought.

"Thank you for that." He tells her, flicking a stray crumb at her.

"It was no trouble." She says with a smile.

He sighs and voices his overarching concern, "I'm worried I'm going to blow the entire operation with my 'hob-nailed boots'." He attempts some sort of imitation of Leliana's lilting accent.

Kirstin snorts into her drink, "Eh, you'll just have to leave your boots here then."

"Free for you to tinker with?" He grins, "Not a chance."

The more he learns about her, he reflects the following day, the more he's starting to admit to himself that he _really_ likes her. She's a mage, and though that's not traditionally worked out well for him, she's different somehow. She's not from a noble background ("My parents were poor as chantry mice and I have six brothers. They gave me to the circle when I was eight with what I reckon was relief."), wasn't on a side in the mage rebellion ("Starkhaven's mages were all taken in by the royal family.") but has seen her fair share of hardship and horror ("We were safe until the first of the demons started showing up. Took us one by one until those of us left decided to run.").

She's untested in the real suffering of war though and he's not sure how she'll fare in what he's confident is coming. It makes him want to simultaneously ask her to run and lock herself into the Undercroft where she'll have access to an arsenal of magical weaponry should Skyhold ever be invaded, or draft her into his personal guard so she's within earshot at every moment.

He doesn't think she's the sort to take too kindly to being swathed in cotton wool, and the thought only makes him like her more.

The night before they leave, Josephine frog-marches the party into the ballroom. It's looking a little worse for wear under the current tenant's occupancy (scorch marks decorate the ceiling, he notices idly), but the floor is clear. Which is important, he realises with dread when Maryden walks in behind them with a casual greeting and produces her lute with an exaggerated flourish.

"Is this really necessary Ruffles?" Varric asks, plaintively.

Josephine merely stares them all down and with that, Skyhold's meanest fighting machines are pairing off to learn the basics of Orlesian court dancing. To be entirely fair, he thinks as he watches Cassandra's first attempts, it's probably not going to hurt.

Things are not going _terribly_ , he's pleased to note, until word apparently spreads around the castle that the Inquisitor and his group are learning to dance. It seems like no one in Skyhold can resist a look and soon there's a crowd of people gathering on the sides of the ballroom.

Including one face that he was _really_ hoping he wouldn't see.

It takes no time at all for the residents of Skyhold to turn the spectacle into a team sport. Soon the hall is filled with dancers, all of whom, he notes, are much better than him. Including a few children who don't stand taller than his knees.

"Oh don't look so morose Commander," Josephine scolds as he messes up yet another step, "It's not so bad. But perhaps we need to rethink your strategy." She makes eye contact with someone standing behind him over his shoulder and grins slowly, "maybe we could arrange for a broken toe?"

Cullen finds himself to be sincerely unimpressed.

That is, until Josephine excuses herself with a laugh, beckoning for the newcomer to take her place. "Just practise those steps until you can do it in your sleep."

 _Joke's on you my friend,_ he thinks with sarcastic malice, _I don't sleep… ah hahaha._

His mood lasts for five more seconds before he's somehow holding a smiling and sympathetic Kirstin in his arms. Smiling, that is, until the first time he mashes her toes.

/=====/

"You know, Varric gave me a nickname yesterday."

They're sitting in the kitchens munching on a plate full of roasted nuts and dried fruit that he's pilfered from the stores. He's suffered through a long day of paperwork and time with her is like a balm for a brain he feels is stagnating under a pile of requisition orders.

"High praise indeed." He tells her, impressed. "It took a very long time for him to give me one."

She cocks her head to one side over her steaming mug of hot milk she patiently waited for over the fire. "What is it?"

He snorts in amusement "Curly."

"Original." She says flatly, her eyes flicking inevitably up to his ridiculous mop of blonde curls.

"I think it was an off day."

She grins and reaches for more of the dried fruit. Her fingers seem to him to be a constant source of fascination. They're always stained with a myriad of different colours. Today, they're covered in splodges of blue and purple.

"It's better than 'Ruffles'" She says around a mouthful of apricot.

"Come on then," he tosses a sultana into his mouth (he might be a bit too relaxed, he thinks), "what did you get?"

She grins over her mug with what can only be described as intense smugness, "Detonator."

He leans back in his chair and folds his arms, "Dorian's going to be upset you've won the nickname game." He notes.

"More upset than you when he beat you at chess the other day?"

Cullen immediately frowns at her, "he cheated and you know it."

He still has no idea how he managed it. Dorian should not have won using that particular strategy. He'd been watching the mage like a hawk during their next game, that was for certain.

Cullen blinks as something hits him in the forehead. "Did you just throw a sultana at me?"

"You know that sense of wounded honour is exactly why he cheated right?" She innocently sips her milk, eyes twinkling.

"I _knew_ it."

/=====/

If he thinks that Halamshiral is torture, it doesn't even remotely compare to the weeks leading towards the assault on Adamant Fortress.

He's not sure if it's the pressure of securing the place or the myriad of threads that need to be woven together in time to make it happens that triggers the breakdown or if it had just been building since Kirkwall.

Cassandra is an idiot, he rages to himself, storming back towards the sanctuary of his tower. He barely notices the terrified looks on his troops' faces as they scatter out of his way. He doesn't notice the Inquisitor's frown as he watches him cross the courtyard. Doesn't notice the look Max shares with Dorian, the latter slipping away into the belly of the Castle.

Max will see reason, he thinks furiously to himself. Doesn't the Seeker realise Cullen's become a liability? He's not been sleeping _at all_ for the past few nights for fear of demons in his dreams. The past seems to cling to him and refuses to let go, drowning him in memory. He's tried to fight, Maker knows he's tried, but maybe it's impossible.

He should be taking it.

The pervasive throbbing in his head would stop. He'd be able to think clearly. He'd be able to put the puzzle of Adamant together. There's something he's missing, he's sure of it. He's sure he'd be able to… to…

With a roar of frustration, he hurls the lyrium philter at the door, nearly taking out the Inquisitor with shards of broken glass.

"Maker's breath", he exclaims, sagging against his desk, "I didn't see you there."

Later, he wakes up in his bedroom, the sunshine streaming in through the roof he's been meaning to fix for months now. Magic tingles in the corners of his senses, now suffused with the lyrium he's been refusing. His stomach sinks to the soles of his shoes as the previous day comes rushing back.

"It doesn't control you." Max had said, "You control it. It's a tool, not a leash." The Inquisitor had sighed with the weight of understanding. "I know how you feel and what your principles mean to you my friend, it's one of the reasons I find myself respecting you more than any man I've ever met but," he'd leaned both hands on his desk to look the Commander in the eye, "if it kills you, it's not worth it."

He sighs, not at all happy with the outcome but certainly feeling better. Feeling… well feeling like himself for the first time in nearly two years. If he puts aside his principles and overwhelming storm cloud of failure, it's not terrible. It's not until he shifts onto his side that he remembers, with a jolt, that he's not alone.

The minute he'd taken lyrium again, the world had gone a bit haywire. He remembers the room spinning uncontrollably and definitely being sick… more than once. He cracks one eye open gingerly and, after a moment, relaxes.

She's fallen asleep in the unused but giant armchair he'd found abandoned in the room and had just never got around to moving.

He can do nothing but stare.

It's like he's never seen her before, he thinks to himself. Or like he was looking at the world through glasses not made for him. Lyrium has re-woken his senses and the woman asleep in his chair almost _glows_ with it. He can pick out golden highlights in her unruly chestnut coloured hair and there's a light dusting of freckles on her face that he's never noticed before.

When she wakes up about a half hour later, her eyes seem multi-faceted and twinkle with life. When she smiles at him, he's certain he'll never breathe again.

Thinking back, Cullen can put a pin in this moment as the time he realises he is in a significant amount of trouble.

/=====/

It's later that day, after she's gone and he's looking over his maps with fresh eyes and clear thoughts that he has another realisation.

She needs to come with him to Adamant.

It's not a realisation he's entirely happy with if he's honest. But there's no one better equipped to storm a fortress. She and Dagna have, between them, developed countless tonics, grenades, enchantments and runes that would undoubtedly tip the balance in their favour.

And with anything where they're on the offensive, they'd need all the help they could get.

He sits on his thoughts for a few days before he finds himself at the door to the ballroom, still not entirely sure if this is a road he's willing to go down. It's the thought of her face if she ever found out he was coddling her, that helps him walk through.

"Commander!" Dagna greets him with unrestrained glee, "We were literally about to send someone to get you." She points upwards with a grin that splits her face, "They work!"

Cullen slowly tips his head back, "Well… _that_ changes some things."

Two weeks later, they're at Adamant.

He's never been on a field where his attention is so divided, he thinks. The constant stream of information and updates rushing through the command tent is almost dizzying. So much that can go wrong has gone wrong. The walls are crawling with demons and there's an army of wardens fighting amongst themselves.

It's utter chaos. Chaos is good.

It's into that chaos that he throws Kirstin and her mages. They flit in and out of the front lines tossing anti-gravity grenades at groups of unsuspecting demonic foe. She levitates a frost bomb with magic and hurls it with impressive precision at one of the giant ogres and it's taken swiftly down while it freezes.

As they get closer to the walls, his stomach starts to flip-flop with what's coming next.

Horns sound and he clenches his fists, the army has reached the walls. Giant siege ladders are launched towards the battlements and he clamps down on the pain he feels with his men as they fall. That is for him to deal with later; for now, he has a mission and he'll use any advantage.

Anything to get the Inquisitor inside that castle.

"KIRSTIN!" He roars across the field.

She stops what she's doing and turns to face him. He looks at her and can almost feel his memory take a snapshot of the moment. It might be the last he sees.

"Give them hell." He murmurs as he waves his arm.

She nods, calls to Dorian, Solas and Hawke before the four of them take a deep breath and start to run towards the walls. They don't slow down when they get there.

"Anti-gravity boots!" Kirstin calls down from where she's stuck to the ballroom ceiling, practically bursting with pride. "They fucking work Cullen!" she forgets her carefully proper manners for a moment in her excitement.

Not stuck to the ceiling, he realises after a second; she's _walking on_ the ceiling.

The mages wave their arms and the boots start to glow seconds before they leap onto the wall. And then they're taking turns with barrier spells, fighting their way up and over the battlements to clear a path for the invaders.

"Maker go with you." He breathes, turning from the flashes of light he can see behind the crenulations.

He can kid himself that he ignores the worry chewing at him, even after he asks the Inquisitor to go and help Hawke clear the demons on the walls. It's not until the Dragon shows its face that he feels like the Inquisition Forces Commander should take a more active role in checking on the invasion.

He and Leliana, in an unspoken agreement that surprises him a little, rush to oversee progress and he has to admit, he's missed the surge of adrenaline coupled with Lyrium in combat even if every flare of it is touched with regret and remorse. He's a force to be reckoned with on the walls, clearing his way through demons and blood mages. The army seems to get more than bolstered at the sight of two of their leaders fighting side by side and in no time, they've managed to lock down the majority of the fortress.

But he's fought his way through the majority of the fortress and he still hasn't seen her.

The only place left is the centre courtyard. The ominous green glow coupled with angry shouting indicate there's some shit going down that they need to see. They push through the doors right at the moment the Inquisitor and the forward party go tumbling off the edge of the fortress and into the abyss in a brilliant flash of green.

"Max!" He hears himself shouting after him.

He's pretty sure there were others with the Inquisitor but life doesn't give him a chance to ponder which of his closest friends he's lost today.

All hell breaks loose; demons pour out of rifts and from untouched areas of the castle. Blood mages still bound fight even harder. Cullen thinks for a second he gets a glimpse of unruly brown hair but in the confusion, he isn't sure and doesn't have time to think.

He barely registers the Inquisitor's return until the demon he is about to run through crumples and dissolves before his eyes.

And suddenly they have a new group of allies. Adamant is taken and the wardens are back.

It's done and the wave of relief that washes over him is almost full.

There's a moment, about half an hour after any battle, where the adrenaline wears off and wounds you didn't know you had start to rear their ugly heads. He slowly turns into a walking pile of aches and pains with limbs. He's bleeding from a cut on his left arm above his bracers, his cheek's grazed and he's sure there's dirt embedded in it, not to mention a dozen, deep and purpling bruises he'll find when he finally gets to take off his dented armor.

He's a mess. But he has other priorities.

He sets up a command tent in the centre of Adamant, sending scouts throughout the castle to map it out and collect stragglers. He gets mages to start clearing rubble, ostensibly to get supplies through but both he and Leliana both know it's to make it easier for the carts. The carts that collect the dead.

All this time, he's straining for any sign of her. It's getting to the point where the worry is harder to clamp down. He finds himself reciting sections of the chant under his breath in a nervous habit. He refuses the help of a healer when they offer, certain he's going to lose his carefully contrived level head if he feels the slightest _hint_ of magic right now.

He catches sight of Dorian in the crowd of people moving rubble on top of the battlements. He's dismayed at the man's appearance; the mage is covered in soot and dust, his usually carefully manicured moustache is lopsided.

They grip each other's arms in an 'I'm really glad you're still alive' sort of way before Cullen asks after her.

The Tevinter is infuriatingly unhelpful, "I don't know," he says softly, "I lost her in the melee."

He feels as though he treks through the entire castle before he finds her. Although to be fair, it's Kirstin that finds him. He's about ready to tear his hair out in frustration and desperation when a rock sails through the air and hits him square in the head.

"Oi! Commander!" Cullen tips his head back, relief making his legs feel weak to find her standing on the ceiling, apparently using the boots to clear away an awkward piece of rubble.

From where he's standing, he can see she hasn't made it through entirely unscathed. She's covered in dust that clings to her hair and face, the same colour as the stuff that had engulfed Dorian at some point during the day. She's also bleeding, a small part of his brain notices, alarmed. There's a cut on her forehead and he can see the beginnings of an impressive black eye forming.

She folds her arms and grins. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

She waves a hand and he feels the magic release. She flips herself mid-air and lands lightly on her feet in front of him, a witty quip forming on her lips.

He's sure that whatever it is she's going to say, it's probably going to be clever and make him laugh like an idiot but at this point, he's too relieved to care. Battlefields are uncertain places. You _never_ know if it's going to be your last. The waiting to see if she's alive has crystallised her place in his world for him and he needs her to understand what he's figured out.

Whatever it is she's going to say doesn't get said as he pulls her roughly towards him, crushing her in an embrace.

A few soldiers cheer as he kisses her and his heart sings as she kisses him back.

/=====/

Rumours, unsurprisingly, don't take long to circulate.

If he's honest, they bother him a good deal more than he'd like. As Commander, he's crafted a certain aura. It's important that the men and women under his command see him as unwavering. It's vital that they hold him to a higher standard.

The way they're treating him at the moment, with knowing smiles and winks, is more than a little grating.

"It really bothers you doesn't it." Kirstin tells him, shaking her head a little.

They're sitting on a fallen log in the centre of the camp on the way back to Skyhold. It's late and most are asleep or in their tents. He huffs out a frustrated breath.

"It's just…" he finds himself chewing the inside of his cheek, mulling over the words, "They're treating me less like their commander and more like a school teacher." He rubs his neck and glances sidelong at her decidedly amused face. He deflates a little. "Now that I say it out loud it does sound ridiculous."

She looks at him, her blue eyes keen with what he swears is speculation. "You know why they follow you don't you."

"You keep asking me questions as statements." He points out with a lop-sided smile.

She ignores him, "It's because you've walked through fire." She holds his confused gaze for a few seconds before looking away in embarrassment, picking at a loose thread in her trousers. "It's not because you pretend to be something bigger than you are, it's because you can't. They see you putting up the shield and they see themselves. They see someone who's walked through fire, someone who's burning with it, and they think 'there's someone who _knows_ '."

He stares at her, stunned into utter silence.

"What she said." Dorian calls from his tent, where he's supposed to be asleep.

Kirstin grins, picking up a rock and pelting it in the direction of the voice. She laughs at the strangled yelp and brushes off her hands, pausing mid-action as her gaze swings back to Cullen's still-stunned face.

"Oh hush," she says, once again looking slightly embarrassed and uncertain, "your enduring oblivion is part of your charm."

He doesn't seem to mind the whispers as much after that.

/=====/

The Undercroft never ceases to take his breath away.

The roar of the waterfall is like music, she says when he asks her if it's distracting. He disagrees, he thinks, tearing his eyes from the sheer drop below. At least they've installed safety netting, he notices with satisfaction. Although he decides he'd prefer not to think about whatever incident occurred that warranted its investiture.

"Cullen, run!"

Kirstin's brilliantly blue eyes are wide with the beginnings of panic and he realises with a jolt that they're literally all he can see of her. Both she and Dagna are cowering behind an upturned workbench and the dwarf is counting down.

"2… 1…"

He's unceremoniously launched backwards through the open doorway as a rune on the floor of the Undercroft explodes.

"Bullseye!" The dwarf cheers, heedless of the significant loss of dignity Cullen's just suffered.

Being shot out of a forge like a long dart tends to bruise one's ego, he thinks darkly.

"Maker's breath," Kirstin exclaims, rushing to help him up off the floor, "are you alright?"

He lets her haul him to his feet, suddenly glad he has a habit of wearing armor most days. "I _really_ think you need to put a sign on the door or something." He mutters, fixing a bracer.

"Well… we don't really get many visitors apart from the Inquisitor you know." She frowns, leading him back into the Undercroft where Dagna and Harrit are yanking splinters of a test dummy out of the walls, "speaking of, were you here on business or," in spite of himself he smiles as she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, "did you have something else in mind?"

"Business sadly," he tells her, beckoning Dagna over and pulling out the scroll he's tucked into his shirt, "tell me what you know about red lyrium."

An hour and countless theories and ideas later, Kirstin walks with him back to his tower. Her brow is furrowed and she's uncharacteristically silent as she thinks.

"How well did you know Samson?" She asks as they climb the stairs to the battlements.

The sun is warming despite the pervasive chill in the mountain air so he stops on the walls. She joins him, staring out over the Frostbacks and leaning against a crenulation. He doesn't talk for a little while and she lets him formulate his thoughts.

He sighs heavily, "I've told you about what happened in the circle at Ferelden?" It's something he thinks he can remember telling her. The haze of withdrawals and the sudden shock of lyrium has scrambled his memory a little.

She nods, her face solemn.

"I was… reassigned not long afterwards, to Kirkwall." He's never been very good at talking about his past, he thinks to himself, and reliving some memories is particularly hard. "I met Samson there. I was… well I don't think I was myself."

He tells her, in halting, quiet words, about his hatred of magic and mages. How he'd been overly zealous, how Samson had helped him see his charges as people again before being abandoned by the order to the realities of addiction. He's ashamed, he knows, of the man he'd become when faced with the Blight. Ashamed that his training hadn't helped him. Ashamed that he'd broken.

And if he thinks reliving it in his mind is painful, it's bloody terrifying relaying it to her.

He knows she deserves the truth, deserves to know exactly what she's getting herself into. He's no knight in shining armor, no dashing hero, no perfect symbol of goodness and light like the Inquisitor seems to be.

"It's no wonder Samson's found himself where he has." Cullen muses, almost to himself. "Given a different set of circumstances, that could have very easily been… well… me."

Kirstin is quiet, he can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she processes his story. She moves to stand next to him, shoulder bumping his in a comforting gesture.

"He made his choices." She says, laying a hand one of his bracers, "You made yours. I think it's what we do with our circumstances that defines who we are."

"Luck helps as well." He murmurs wryly, thinking of the day Cassandra had showed up with an offer he could not refuse.

"That too."

/=====/

At some point, they move their late-night kitchen raids to his tower. With the hole in the roof _finally_ fixed and a fire roaring in the grill, he swears blind it's almost cosy. The extra furs she brings with her say otherwise. He supposes he's just a bit of an eternal furnace.

If his aides have noticed he's man-handled the arm chair awkwardly down the ladder and positioned it in just the right place in front of the fire, they wisely haven't commented. If they've noticed the equally sudden and mysterious appearance of a pile of books precariously stacked beside it covering lyrium rune-theory, they've also remained silent.

She's curled in what he's started to think of as _her_ chair, nose buried in a book. The scratching of a nib on a piece of parchment as she makes notes is the only sound apart from the crackling of the fire.

Looking at her, it's almost as though he can forget the Inquisition is in the midst of a titanic struggle against a ravenous force of evil. It's like he's looking at his future. He realises in an instant of clarity, that he wants her in it, that he needs her to be in it. He needs her to be sitting in her chair, puzzling over some formula or engineering tweak.

His is an uncertain future, but he knows he'd rather not have one at all if it's devoid of her.

She frowns and peers at a section of the tome that's clearly troubling her, chewing the tip of her pen. He realises he's staring but he figures it's late; it's unlikely Cassandra will want an update on requisitions any time soon.

She glances up at him in briefly before her eyes flick back to her book. "You're not making it easy to concentrate." She grumbles around the pen.

"I would apologise," he says with a slow smile, "but I'm not even remotely sorry."

She doesn't look up as he pushes back his chair, the wooden legs scraping against the stone. He can tell she's not reading the words in front of her anymore though and for some reason, it makes him feel something like smugness.

He lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire, glad he's acquiesced to Josephine's suggestion that the Commander of the Inquisition should have decorative rugs in his office. He leans his forearms on his knees, warming his hands on the fire.

He looks up at her, smiling at her feeble attempts to remain engrossed in her studies and, in a voice that sounds more confident than he feels, he asks her something he never thought he'd ever ask anyone, "Marry me."

Kirstin freezes, then very slowly and deliberately, closes the book. She looks at him for a long moment, almost as though she's trying to figure out if he's as serious as he knows he is.

She smiles, "Okay."

/=====/

Predictably, Leliana is the first to pounce.

They're in the war room, planning troop movements and refining strategy for their somewhat rushed assault on the Arbor Wilds. Supply wagons and the advance teams left that morning, moving along prearranged routes mapped out by scouting parties.

"If you could ask your fiancé to add some more of those confusion grenades to my scout's supplies, Commander, I would appreciate it."

He's so distracted, adding up some numbers in his head and scribbling them down on the parchment in front of him, that he doesn't even blink, "I'll ask her this afternoon." He replies absently, pen scratching on paper.

After a moment he looks up at the sudden silence. All five of them are staring at him and Leliana is looking more than smug.

"What did I say?" He asks innocently, furiously backtracking in his mind to figure it out.

"I knew it!" the spymaster exclaims in triumph, smiling as she gives him a hug. "How did you ask her?"

He blinks in dismay, realising his slip. He had been hoping to control the news, considering he hadn't had a chance to ask any of them to the tiny and preferably _secret_ ceremony they had planned. The shocked silence around the table is broken by exclamations of joy and he suddenly finds himself being clapped on the back and swept up in congratulations.

When he's able to talk, he gives Leliana his best glare, "How did you know?"

The spymaster smiles knowingly, "You've both been smiling more than usual… plus one of my scouts went to check on something for me this morning in the Undercroft and heard Kirstin and Dagna talking about it." She shrugs, "Not so mysterious." She frowns then and pokes him in the chest, "I do have to say Commander, that you are one of the most unromantic men I know."

He rolls his eyes skyward, "Oh Maker preserve me. What would you have me do?"

Cassandra's eyes narrow at Leliana, "What happened?"

He huffs out a frustrated breath, "I asked her to marry me, she said yes. End of story."

"It sounds perfect." If Cullen is expecting support from someone, it's not from Josephine. "What?" She protests as they all turn to look at the self-proclaimed romantic in astonishment. "It's not what I would want by any means but you're met _them_ yes?" She grins at the Commander, "In fact I wouldn't be surprised if he told us they were married already."

Max snorts in amused agreement, "what, no 'we could use this to boost morale' speech?". He teases and Cullen nearly groans out loud as the exact thing he's trying to avoid is placed on the table.

The Commander is fully prepared to defend their right to privacy when the Ambassador again comes to his aid. "If it were anyone else, I would say we should plan a party to end all parties and invite every noble in Thedas." She shakes her head with a not-entirely-disappointed smile at Cullen, "but I think Kirstin would turn my office upside down."

/=====/

True to Josephine's predictions, they're married a few days later.

It's a tiny ceremony held in an equally tiny chapel in a small village away from the castle. Mother Giselle reads the chant and they make their promises. Kirstin is wearing a dress for the first time he can remember and the effect is sort of wonderfully unsettling. Josephine has woven flowers into her curly hair and the simplicity of it renders him breathless every time he looks at her.

As they prepare to head back to the castle, Dorian presses a rolled piece of parchment into his hand with a smug grin. "From all of us." He says as the small group of witnesses melt away as though they've planned it.

Which they probably have, he thinks with a fond smile.

"What is it?" Kirstin asks, squeezing his hand.

It's a map that leads to a small cottage in the foothills of the Frostbacks. It's getting dark by the time they reach it and he can see there's a light spilling through the windows. They tie their horses to a post outside.

"This is beautiful." Kirstin breathes, stopping in the middle of the clearing to get a good look at the house. "How on earth did they manage this in so little time? In the middle of a _war_?"

He steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. "Magic?" His suggestion is slightly muffled in her hair and he swears she shivers as his breath tickles her skin.

She twists around in his grasp and it isn't too much longer before they're kicking the door shut behind them, collapsing in a delicious pile of tangled limbs.

He wakes the following morning, tensing slightly at the unfamiliarity of his location. The feel of her head pressed against his chest, one leg curled around his and the not-entirely uncomfortable numbness of one of his arms is immediately reassuring.

He picks up a stray curl and absently twirls it around one finger, marvelling that he's so calm and relaxed for the first time in as long as he can remember. The dawn light is creeping through the trees and pouring into the cabin's single room, casting everything in a strange other-worldly glow. The room is small and rustic. It's been decorated and covered in furs. The fire has burned down to embers overnight and there's a large basket of bread, fruit and cheese set on a table in a corner for their breakfast, hidden beneath his crumpled cloak where she tossed it, unseeing last night.

He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to shatter this dream. He can feel her breathing, watches the smooth skin of her back rise and fall with it. He shifts as little as he dares to pull the heavy furs back up against the chill and sighs as she stirs.

A sudden uncertainty hits him as he watches her struggle through the last remnants of sleep. They never really spoke about past experiences, he realises. Never really spoke about why both were content to hold back that part of themselves until they'd _really_ thrown everything into the ring. He's told himself it's his Chantry upbringing but perhaps he's been scared. Not scared of giving her everything he has to give but what that might mean if one of them is lost.

"Penny for that dark cloud above your head?"

He snaps himself out of his reverie to find soft blue eyes looking down at him. He shakes his head and wraps one hand around the back of her head, weaving fingers through her hair. Worries are for later, his thinks as he props himself up on one elbow, capturing her mouth in what he hopes is a memorable kiss.

For now, he'll save those memories like they're pieces of gold.

/=====/

They return to Skyhold reluctantly, reality washing back over them as they pass through the gates under cover of night. Tired limbs climb the ladder to his chambers in the Tower, _their_ tower now he realises with a smile. He blinks and pauses in the process of unlatching his cloak. Someone, he's not sure who, has moved an extra set of possessions into the room. It doesn't even remotely look wrong to see an extra trunk in the corner next to his. Her armor doesn't look out of place where it's arranged carefully on a stand near the window, staff propped up against the sill. How they managed to haul the desk that now sits under the window covered in books and parchment that are undeniably _hers_ up the ladder is entirely beyond him.

Someone's even cleared the rubble behind his bed so that it finally lies flush against the wall. He must admit, that's been bothering him for ages.

"Well this is different." She says, running a finger along the edge of the desk.

"That it is." He agrees, spinning around to take it all in.

"Not your doing then?" She asks him, a little surprised.

"Would it impress you more if I lied and said yes?" He tries, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She grins at him, moving to wrap her arms around his waist, "Who knew that being Commander of the Inquisitor's army had perks?"

He snorts in amusement at that, "the giant hole in my ceiling that took two years to repair would say otherwise."

She tips her head back to look up at him with a raised eyebrow, "and here I was thinking I'd be enjoying luxury." She sniffs haughtily, affecting an Orlesian accent, "These chambers only have a single room? Impossible."

"Oh is that how it is?" He challenges her with a grin.

"Uh huh." The ridiculous accent continues, "The only way to even get up here is using a ladder?! And…" whatever it is she's going to say next is lost as he picks her up. She laughs against his lips before they both tumble onto the bed.

/=====/

He's with the Inquisitor in the war room when he realises he's going to send her into the field alone.

Well, not alone exactly, he corrects himself, but he won't be there to make sure she's still breathing. Same thing as far as he's concerned.

"You're sure about this?" Max asks as they move her squad's piece into position on the map.

"No." He pushes himself back from where he's been leaning against the table, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword and frowning, "But believe me, if there was another option I would take it." He murmurs, staring at the small model of one of his wife's confusion grenades. The tiny sphere glints back at him, mocking him despite his certainty that this is necessary.

Behind the carefully neutral exterior he rails at the unfairness of it all. They've been married for literally three days and he's going to have to watch her ride away? Into a danger he can't protect her from?

No, he isn't sure about it at all.

"We could always send more scouts to…" The Inquisitor withers under the Commander's unimpressed glare.

"Don't do that." He says, pinching the tip of his nose. "There's no other option. She and her mages can get in and trap the field. It'll slow down the red templars giving us more time to get our troops into position. There's no one else who can set those grenades like she can."

He feels himself scribble orders on a piece of parchment and hand it to a runner with fingers that don't seem to belong to him. The woman nods and, with a crisp salute, turns to head to the supply officer and the Undercroft.

He watches her go with a sinking feeling but forces himself to turn back to the Inquisitor. His friend is looking at him with concern and a large helping of pity and it's almost the final straw.

"Max…" he growls in warning.

The man holds up both hands in acquiescence, "Ok I'll stop. If it makes you feel any better, which it probably doesn't, I happen to agree with you completely."

It doesn't make him feel better.

A half hour later, he excuses himself and strides from the room. He stops in the empty corridor as the heavy doors swing shut behind him.

"Just. Breathe." He mutters, feeling the world closing over him as old panics surface.

What if she doesn't come back? What if she does come back and she's different and it's entirely his fault? What if she hates him for sending her away?

With a cry of frustration, he wheels around and throws his entire weight into his fist. Ancient stone crumbles into dust beneath his gauntleted fingers. A sudden exhaustion presses in on him and he grips the window sill, bent double to catch his breath.

As he takes one last deep breath, pushing himself back to stand tall, he doesn't notice the Inquisitor cracking the door open, watching him stride down the corridor with sad eyes.

/=====/

She finds him in the Chantry.

Cullen sits on the floor, knees bent and one arm bracing himself on the floor behind him as he stares at the statue. He's not sure what he's looking for in the stone face. Some divine inspiration perhaps? Some sign that he's not alone?

He turns his head a little as she sits down beside him, cross-legged in her forge gear. She's holding a familiar piece of parchment, he notices with a twinge of guilt.

"I should have come to tell you." He says flatly, eyes still narrowed at Andraste's face.

She's silent but he knows she's looking at him; his ears burn the same way they always do when she's regarding him with _that_ look. It's the look where she tells him she _knows_ without words.

He _really_ hates that look sometimes.

After a while she follows his gaze to the statue and tries to smile, "I feel like if you stare at her any longer, you might chisel extra forehead creases."

"That's not funny." He says, frustration threatening his careful calm.

She sighs, "I know."

She rests her head on his shoulder with a heavy thud and out of the corner of his eye he can see her fingers moving, playing with a thread on her leathers like she always does when she's waiting for him to say something.

He takes a deep breath.

"It's not that I don't think you're capable,"

"I know."

"It's just…" he tries to find the words, "I won't… I can't…"

"I don't need you to protect me." She says softly. He bristles at that and she's immediately sitting up and turning his head to force him to look at her, "But I _love_ that you want to."

He frowns at her, suddenly angry without really know why.

"Why are you so bloody _calm_ about this?" He growls, wrenching himself out of her grasp and standing.

He turns about on his heel, sweeping his sword up from where he'd left it on an empty bench earlier. His need for solitude has tripled and bearing his soul to Andraste has not been the comfort it usually is. There's a small part of his brain that is screaming at him, shouting that he's being irrational but he's not listening.

"What would you have me do?" Kirstin calls after him, exasperated, "berate you in front of the whole of Skyhold? Toss you off the battlements? Be angry at you for something that's not even remotely your fault?"

"Yes!" He exclaims, turning back around, one hand braced on the door.

"Why?" She demands, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes.

"Because it is my fault! Because you're about to walk into a fucking hornet's nest and _I'm_ the one who has to send you there!"

There it is, he thinks. He's never really had to send anyone he's cared for like he does for her into danger before. If something happens to her, it'll be _on his head_ and he's not sure he can bear it.

He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly, "I have a duty to…"

"Don't you even dare Cullen." She growls and he's silenced by the intensity of the emotion in her voice. She strides towards him and pokes him firmly in the chest. "Don't you dare hit me with 'duty' and 'honour'." She punctuates each word with a poke. "Don't you dare think for a moment that I don't understand and don't you even think that this seems fair to me," her words are coming out in a rush now, "You are the only thing I've ever been allowed to be selfish about and now that I've finally got you all to myself?" She stands on her tiptoes to look him square in the eye, "Don't you even dare think for a second that I'm not terrified one of us won't come back."

They stare at each other for a few moments, she in her righteous indignation, he in frustrated anger. He deflates and his anger evaporates just as quickly as it has flared. His sword and scabbard clatter to the floor as he wraps his arms around her, hugging her close.

"Forgive me." He asks her.

"I will if you will." Is all she says in reply.

Neither of them sleep much that night. In the morning, he watches her go long after the wagons and horses have disappeared into the mountains.

/=====/

He finally sets eyes on the main camp three weeks later.

The journey to the Arbor Wilds has been excruciatingly slow. Supply wagons roll with painful sluggishness through the thick forest. He calls a halt so the soldiers can dig them out of the tree roots more than once. As they move along the pre-marked route he sees evidence of fighting and familiar-looking scorch marks.

Kirstin's team have been more than doing their job, he thinks proudly as they pass through an artificial clearing. They step gingerly over churned earth and the scattered red crystals of templars that have succumbed to her mines.

He's surprised to find the carnage somewhat reassuring.

"Well, that's one less we have to deal with." Max breathes, shocked as they stare up into the branches of one of the giant, ancient trees of the forest and the colossal red templar that's twisted in terrible ways high up amongst the leaves.

"She got those crushing grenades working I think." Cullen agrees just as shocked at the sight.

"Your wife is strangely terrifying." Dorian comments as they tear their eyes away. "I mean, nicest person you'll ever meet… but terrifying."

"It's a good thing she's on our side then." Cullen comments with a lop-sided grin.

Three days later, they stumble into a pre-prepared clearing. Leliana's scouts are scrambling to set up tents and cooking fires but soon have significant amounts of help. Cullen watches from the command tent as the camp slowly fills with life, fires twinkling and the low murmur of voices on the air.

There's no sign of Kirstin.

When he asks Leliana, she tells him her group are scouting ahead for their next strike points and should be back that night. But it's past dark and there's she hasn't come to find him. The worry he's managed somehow to squash into a corner of his mind starts crashing into the door he's put firmly in place.

"I'm sure she's fine." Dorian says in a way that's so casual it sets his teeth on edge.

It's the burden of knowledge again, Cullen thinks as he finds himself staring unseeing at the field maps in the command tent. He _knows_ what can go wrong, _knows_ that you can never plan for it and _knows_ that experience doesn't even remotely matter. All it takes is one foot in just the wrong place and everything goes to shit in the blink of an eye.

No, he won't be happy or relaxed until she's standing in front of him and even then he's not sure he'll be completely satisfied.

He sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly, trying to focus once more on the task at hand. No one, when they talked about marriage and love, ever talked about this. This sinking feeling and constant, nagging worry about the person you care about. If they ever have children, he thinks, Kirstin will probably have to physically restrain him from tying them to various items of furniture so they're within eyeshot at all times.

"Commander." Cullen looks up at the scout as the woman salutes smartly, and takes the piece of parchment she offers.

And then he's running to the medical tent.

There are times he hates his armour with the fiery passion of a thousand flaming suns. It's bulky, heavy and for the brief week he'd found himself in the Western Approach he'd discovered its many hidden nooks and crannies that filled with sand. As people scatter at the sight of him sprinting through the camp, he's never loved how intimidating it is more in his life.

Solas is emerging from the massive tent when he barrels up to the doorway.

"Where is she?" He demands, surprised to find himself a little relieved at the apostate's presence.

His face his grim as he considers his words carefully and Cullen's feeling of relief begins to waver, "She will be fine, after a time."

"What exactly does that mean?" His voice is flat as he tries to focus on the fact that 'she will be fine'.

"She suffered a great shock, Commander. I have done what I can for now but there is more to be healed." Solas sighs and for the first time Cullen notices the dark circles under his eyes and the way he sways on his feet. "I will return after I have rested." The elf rests a comforting hand on Cullen's shoulder, "I do not know what happened, but I do know she will heal."

"Thank you." Is all he can manage in reply.

Solas nods, "It is no trouble; she means a great deal to all of us."

Cullen watches him leave, feeling his heart thumping in his chest, before he turns around and enters the tent.

It's not a comforting place.

Pallets form three neat lines down the entire length of the massive marquee. The tent itself has been in place since the very beginning, Cullen knows. He's seen the continuous patient manifests with his own eyes. He's tried to tell himself it's to understand the needs of the army but he's looking for her name, breathing easier each time he doesn't find it.

He scans the stretchers, eyes glazing over a sleeping scout with a horrible burn across his face, a soldier silently crying as nurses stitch up a shallow wound in his leg, a mage shaking her head sadly as she takes her hands away from a scout. He tenses, eyes settling finally on a small figure in the bed right in the corner.

Half an hour later, someone has found a chair from Maker-only-knows where and he's set up a sort of mobile command centre. He's surrounded by papers, maps, reports, equipment lists and scouting manifolds. It would be easier, he thinks, if he has someone to discuss this with but there's no way in hell he's moving from the tent.

Rationally, he knows she's not going anywhere and probably not for a long time but he can't make himself leave. It's shock, the small part of his brain that's still working thinks. And to be fair, right at the present moment, she is a bit shocking.

All of her limbs are currently swathed in heavy splints; he's been told that one of her legs was essentially shattered into a thousand pieces. She's covered in blankets to keep her body temperature stable. Her face is possibly the most in-tact and unscathed of all. Only her eyes, surrounded by angry reddish-purple bruising tell of the intense trauma she's suffered.

Two broken arms, one broken leg, one shattered leg, one broken collar bone, five broken ribs, intense internal bleeding that took Solas hours to halt and she's somehow still breathing.

He has a sketchy report somewhere in a pile on the floor. She and Dagna were planting mines in an area that should have been clear. Scouts had tried to get to them in time but they were overrun quickly. A red templar had picked her up and _smashed her_ against a tree before a squad could get to them. Dagna is equally swathed in bandages and furs in the pallet next to Kirstin's with a few broken limbs and nasty concussion.

Kirstin's going to be livid, he thinks to himself, watching her breathing, that she was outmatched. But the odds were against her; there is only so much you can do when outnumbered 2 to 20. They are both lucky to be alive.

He shivers at the thought and closes his eyes tight, taking a deep breath. She's alive, he thinks furiously, Maker have mercy she's _alive._

A nurse tells him in a low voice as she passes that she will sleep for a long time. Solas has placed what he calls a 'sleep seal' to prevent her from waking too early.

"It speeds healing in cases as serious as hers." He says with a grim but sympathetic look. "But it means waking up can be… disorienting."

"How long?" Cullen asks.

The mage sighs and the shake of his head tells Cullen that they have no idea.

The Inquisitor finds him asleep in the chair an indeterminate amount of time later. He jerks awake with a start at the sudden pressure of his friend's hand on his shoulder.

"Andraste preserve us." Max breathes, looking at her for the first time. "She never half-arses anything does she?"

Cullen rubs his eyes tiredly and sighs, "No she does not."

The Inquisitor takes a deep breath and tears his eyes away from her, looking down at Cullen with that weird sort of sympathetic firmness he somehow manages. "Cullen, I know there's nowhere you'd rather be right now, Maker knows I'd let you stay here if we could but…"

"I know." Cullen murmurs.

Max cracks a hesitant half-smile, "That's a shame; I had a whole Corypheus-is-looming speech prepared."

"You'll have to save it for later." The Commander replies with a smile but it fades as he turns his gaze back to the pallet. "Give me a moment Max."

The Inquisitor squeezes his shoulder and walks away, leaving Cullen to stare at his wife for a minute longer. He takes a deep breath and begins to gather his papers.

/=====/

The next day passes in a blur of battle, adrenaline, worry and a sleepless night spent with his feet propped up carefully on the edge of a pallet in the hospital tent. Corypheus is dealt a blow, but is still a looming threat. Max somehow manages to come out of the _temple of Mythal,_ yet another ridiculous situation, unscathed and in _Skyhold_. He and Cassandra had paced identical holes in the command tent waiting for that particular raven to arrive. He suffers through countless expressions of sympathy, numerous sidelong glances from worried friends and _the_ question.

"If you even _think_ of asking me if I'm alright I will smite you." He growls at Dorian as the mage wanders over to where Cullen has been cleaning his armor for the past half an hour.

Dorian blinks and holds out two separate packages in front of him, "Would you like the chicken or fish?"

Cullen later apologises for threatening to sever his best friend's connection to the fade.

The next day finds the Inquisitor's inner circle saddling their horses, preparing to ride hard back to Skyhold. Cullen has never been more torn in his entire life. On the one hand, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that wherever the Inquisitor is, the Commander of the army goes. But he's also certain that he needs to be within three feet of his comatose other half.

Honour and duty, he scoffs to himself. If she were awake, he knows, she'd tell him to get his arse onto his horse and back to where he's needed. But he's standing at her bedside, dressed in his travel gear, and she just looks so small, so frail and he finds he can't bring himself to take a step away.

"I'll look after her Commander."

He tears his eyes away and looks over at Dagna's tired face. She smiles a small smile and glances over at her friend.

"She's got the best healers in Thedas looking out for her, she'll be ok." Dagna's voice is scratchy but confident and, though it probably shouldn't make him feel better, it does.

"Thank you." He gently squeezes the dwarf's unbroken shoulder.

She grins, "Eh, it's not like I'm going anywhere for a little while."

It's strange, he muses as their small group gallops across a large, green field on their way back to the mountains, but he doesn't blame himself. He's not wallowing in a hole somewhere, going over scenarios _ad nauseum_ or hitting himself over the head because he hadn't managed to get there just a day earlier to prevent the entirely random attack that no one saw coming.

The wind rushing in his ears almost sounds like her voice, _"It's not your fault. Don't ever think it is."_

/=====/

They get their chance for payback not three days after their party clatters through the gates.

The five of them, Leliana, Josephine, Max, Cullen and Morigan spend a teeth-grinding amount of time trying to figure out how to take the fight to the Elder One before the Inquisitor collapses unexpectedly. Josephine rushes to where he's kneeling on the floor clutching at his marked hand while Cullen and the others spin around to watch the sky crack open.

"Max," he says in a low and warning voice, stomach sinking as, once again, he has a hand in sending friends into certain danger, "you won't have backup. Our forces are still in the Arbor Wilds."

Max stands on firm, determined feet and looks him square in the eye, "One way or another, this must end now."

There's silence around the table for a moment before they all look at each other and nod.

"One way or another." Cullen agrees, moving to grip his friend's arm before sweeping out the door to get the Inquisitor as much help as he possibly can scrape together.

The Commander doesn't get to say goodbye to his friends as they ride out of the castle gates. It's probably for the best, he thinks as he watches the group fade into the distance. He leans his elbows on the battlements just outside his tower and chews his lip. The Inquisition; his redemption. Everything comes down to this day. His closest friends are out there, fighting off the biggest threat to their world. He has no idea who will come back, no idea if their world will even be here in a few hours, no idea if he'll ever get to play chess with Dorian, spar with Max, argue with Cassandra or…

There's only one place he really wants to be right now, and it isn't here.

He lowers his head slowly to the cool stone of Skyhold and closes his eyes. He wants to be anywhere but standing on the battlements, powerless. He wants to be in the thick of the fighting, standing next to the men he calls his best friends. He wants to be shouting orders to his officers but he's already sent them away. He wants to be sitting by a bed in the middle of a forest or pilfering cinnamon rolls from the kitchens listening to her tell him about her latest invention with her song-like voice.

 _"If wishes were horses…_ " his mother would say.

"I've always been a little jealous of you Commander." Cullen starts a little at a voice to his right.

Josephine is standing next to him, staring out at the Breach with wide and haunted eyes. She's not holding her writing pad and Cullen feels as though she doesn't look much like herself without it. Her hands are folded neatly on the walls and he can tell she's straining to remain composed.

"Of me?" He asks, keeping his voice low although he's not really sure why.

"You never had to send Kirstin away until a few weeks ago." She smiles a little bitterly, "I used to wonder what made you so lucky that you got to spend time with her every day while I had to watch Max ride off into the sunset more times than I care to count." Her shoulders deflate a little and she sighs.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but she shakes her head at him, "It was unworthy of me to think such terrible things. At least I got to say goodbye."

He can't think of a single thing to say to her that will be comforting or convey just how much he _understands_ how she's feeling. So, he wraps his arm about her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. The Ambassador rests her head on the fur about his collar and they stand there together, watching the end of the world.

/=====/

Not the end of the world, as it turns out.

There's an all-consuming flash of green light that seems to invade every nook and cranny of the castle until he's sure all he'll ever see again is green. Deafening waves of sound crash over the watchers on the wall and a blast of warm air knocks them off their feet moments later. He cowers on the ground, huddling together with Leliana and Josephine, hugging them to him in an instinct he didn't know he had. Sound and wind mingle together in a cacophony of chaos and he's certain Thedas is in the process of being vapourised into non-existence.

And then all is quiet.

They look at each other, confusion reigning, until someone on the walls starts to cheer.

"They did it." Leliana breathes, poking her head over the battlements gingerly.

As Cullen helps Josephine to her feet, he can't help but stare at the sky and the giant scar the Breach has left behind. He lets himself celebrate with the other soldiers for a while, embracing those familiar and clasping hands with anyone who approaches. Congratulations wash over him in waves as they settle in to wait to see who will come back.

It's a scout who sees them first. Josephine's face is a picture of giddy, joyous relief as the shout reverberates around the castle that the Inquisitor is back. Max rides through the gates leading a triumphant procession of tired-looking warriors. Dorian catches Cullen's eye on the stairs and winks. _"You can't get rid of me that easily."_ Is what he seems to say.

There's a strange air of unplanned formality in the way they all stop at the bottom of the stairs leaving the Inquisitor to walk towards the three of them on the landing. Cullen finds he can't stop grinning, a smile that only widens as Josephine forgets all propriety and launches herself at a laughing Maxwell.

The celebrations last long into the night and not for the first time in his life, Cullen finds himself waking up the next day with a hangover.

/=====/

The healers wake her up about a week later.

She's wheeled in through the gates of Skyhold in the back of a wagon with Dagna nestled in beside her. Both are covered in more furs than he can remember seeing in one place in his life and the dwarf's welcoming smile is almost lost in the midst of them.

Kirstin looks better, he reassures himself as he hovers anxiously by the cart. There's colour in her cheeks again and her limbs are no longer restrained beneath hellish-looking layers of bandages and splints. He stumbles a little, off-balance, as he picks her up to transfer her up the stairs into the infirmary. She's lost a lot of weight in the weeks she's been asleep and it unnerves him to find her so emaciated.

"She'll be very weak for a while but she will recover." Is the line he's continuously fed every time he mentions it.

He supposes that's just what happens when you eat nothing but honey and drink water from a sponge for a little under a month.

The morning of the day the healers are planning to break the sleep seal, he can barely contain himself. There's an undercurrent of nervous and excited energy to his every movement. He can't stop tapping his pen against the war table. He finds his right leg has a mind of its own and won't stop jogging up and down. His hands move of their own accord, making patterns in the oak of his desk or drumming haphazard beats on his chest plate.

" _Will_ you stop that?!" Josephine exclaims during their morning meeting, throwing a tiny scout marker at his head. "What's wrong with you?"

To be fair, she's mildly on edge herself. Buried in the throes of planning a party for all of Thedas, he's told, is an entirely new kind of stressful. But not even mild head-wounds can distract him from his thoughts running at ten thousand miles an hour.

What if her mind is just as broken as her body was? What if she can't remember anything? What if they can't wake her up? Or they can and she's a completely different person? What if the healers missed something and she never wakes up?

What if she never wakes up. Ever.

He finds himself drifting back to that overarching fear time and again. It's kept him awake at nights thinking that he'll never see her smile or laugh or have her tell him he's an idiot once more. They're both of them on the more pragmatic side of the romantic coin but even still; if she dies, he's not sure he'll be able to pull himself out of one more life-disaster.

The healers had pulled him aside and explained what is likely to happen a few days earlier.

"She'll be disoriented." Alexandra, the mage in charge, had told him. "As far as she's concerned, she's only just experienced the trauma." The woman's face is grave as she holds his gaze, "It will be fresh in her mind and it will be painful."

They decide that she needs to be sure of where she is as soon as possible and be surrounded by familiar faces. He ditches his armor and carries her into the Undercroft that afternoon, laying her gently on a pallet Dorian and Harritt move there themselves.

Cullen looks at the people gathered around the small cot. Dorian is near the foot of the bed, smiling in what he thinks is supposed to be an encouraging way but he really looks as nervous as Cullen feels. Max is over by the armor-crafting bench, leaning against it with folded arms. Harritt hovers over his workbench, fiddling with something and trying to distract himself. Cullen turns to the other side of the bed where Dagna sits opposite him, holding Kirstin's hand anxiously.

The healer, Alexandra, nods to them all, "here we go." She murmurs and rests her hands on either side of his wife's head.

There's a rush of magic; it's almost like he can feel an enormous hand pushing at something on Kirstin's forehead. Her brow wrinkles and he holds his breath as she fights against the healer. There's a flash of light and then she's shot upright, gasping for air. Kirstin's limbs flail and she cries out, eyes panicked and unseeing. Cullen feels himself lunge for her arms, trying to still her thrashing.

"Kirstin!" He calls out, "Hey, hey it's ok! You're in Skyhold!"

She stills, and then casts about her, taking in the familiar faces and breathing hard. Her eyes, when they reach his face, are heartbreaking.

"Dear heart, you're ok." He tells her again, softer this time. "You're in Skyhold."

"Cullen?" She says, her voice weak and cracking.

If he must describe part of the reason they get on so well it's partly because both of them are emotionally reserved. Neither enjoy public displays of affection, nor appearances of weakness or sadness or anything that's not cool, calm professionalism on his part and care-free brightness on hers. When she reaches for him instinctively as her face crumples and she _loses_ it in front of everyone, something sort of breaks in him.

It's probably the culmination of weeks of worry and stress and an intense, pervasive relief, but he finds himself crying as he pulls her towards him and buries his face in her hair.

/=====/

"Could you not have at least waited a week to save the world?"

It's late at night and they're sitting in the kitchens eating cinnamon buns and drinking hot milk. A few minutes earlier he had snuck into the infirmary and squirreled her away, both of them unable to sleep.

"Oh I'm _terribly_ sorry," he tells her with a grin, "we did ask the Lord High Chief Bastard to wait a few days but he had his heart set on ruining things."

He ducks the piece of cake that's hurled in his direction.

"Lord High Chief Bastard?" She asks him with a raised eyebrow.

"Varric's words, not mine." He scratches his chin, "I rather like it."

She smiles at him across the table. In the week following her dramatic return to consciousness, she's been improving rapidly. She's eating better, walking further and further along the battlements each day and he swears he can see her old self emerging from the shadows. That there are shadows at all is a continuous source of disappointment at the unfairness of the entire thing to him. But they cross her face less and less each day; he hopes they'll turn into a distant dream.

He hopes, but he knows better. She'll carry this with her always. But he knows it won't crush her, she's far too strong for that and he refuses to let it. Life is just like that, he thinks to himself as he watches her lift her mug with slightly shaking fingers, things just go wrong occasionally.

But sometimes, if you're lucky, they go wonderfully, beautifully _right_.


End file.
